Grave Decisions (Hellgate Guardians Book 3)

by Ivy Asher

  3

  The bartender, a sallow, lanky man, looks at me funny for a beat and then lifts one shoulder in a shrug before he moves down the bar to make my drink. I check around discreetly to see who else is judgin’ me in my work uniform, poppin’ a squat at the bar with one shoe and a stick.

  For a run-down swamp bar, this place is actually more populated than I would have expected. There’s a couple sittin’ at the other end of the bar, overtly watchin’ me like I’m gonna do somethin’ more excitin’ than simply sit here, ready to enjoy a refreshin’, and much deserved, libation.

  As I set my newly claimed stick against the bar, I notice a table of three older men watching the move warily. Maybe this little shit stick made a move for them too.

  I take in the scuffed up tables and the lack of any bar paraphernalia on the walls. This place is mostly contrived of old wine barrels, and...yep, those are teeth on the ceiling. Gator teeth, if I had to guess. A shiver runs up my spine, and I make a mental note to watch where I walk when I leave this place. The last thing I need is to slice open my foot on somethin’ else.

  This place looks like the drinkin’ hole for a bunch of good ol’ boys, and yet the older men at the table and the couple at the bar look more clean-cut and city slicker than they should if my assumptions are true.

  Maybe Hairy Dog Tavern is a tourist spot? A swamp adjacent, country lookin’ stop for visitors who want the feel of a backwoods bar without havin’ to actually deal with backwoods kinds of people. I suppose who can blame ’em? If I could avoid the more bumpkin side of my extended family, I would.

  The bartender slides my drink in front of me, and I look around for a coaster before chucklin’ at myself. Tourist trap or not, this is not a coaster under your drink kind of place. I take a sip and let the cool liquid wash my worries away one sip at a time as the A/C cools my stress and blows the anxiety right off my shoulders.

  Damn. I needed this. I exhale a deep breath and hope the last of my bad luck goes with it. Maybe it’s time to accept that a life in Sweetgreen isn’t in my destiny. I don’t know why that thought bothers me so much or why this place has such a claim on my soul, but I’m drawn here in a way I can’t quite explain.

  I was happy when Mama and Daddy chose to move back to be closer to family when Daddy retired. After my college plans went to hell in a handbasket, the plan was to live with them and save up some money.

  I needed just enough to live off until I could get into a trade school and acquire some kind of certification that gets me closer to stable adult status and further from the almost thirty years old and still a hot mess title I’ve been the runnin’ champion of for way too much of my late twenties. But it’s like this place has a hold on me somehow and no matter what, I can’t leave, because all these years later, I’m still here and still no closer to movin’ out or havin’ my shit together.

  Maybe I’m depressed or somethin’. Although, I don’t feel sad. More like I’m missin’ somethin’, but I just can’t seem to grasp what it is.

  I take another sip of my drink and try to unravel where it all went wrong.

  I could blame movin’ around a lot and the lack of good friends, but I never really fit in anyway except for a couple solid friends, so who’s to say stickin’ in one place would have made a difference? I’ve always had a good family, with no lack of love and support, so that’s definitely not it.

  The shit that went down at college could play a factor, but it feels kinda wrong claimin’ too much of that hardship for me, not when my roomie, Mackenzie, is the one who truly has to carry the scars and trauma around for the rest of her life. Besides, that was a long time ago.

  I reach out for my new stick acquisition and spin it slowly where it’s perched against the bar, studyin’ the details. I run my finger over one of the many metal bands evenly distributed down the staff and wonder what the hell it is.

  Strangely, the metal still feels warm against my touch. It must’ve been out in the swelterin’ heat for a while if it’s takin’ this long to cool off.

  I finish my drink in two more gulps and push it to the inner lip of the bar top so the lanky bartender can see I’m ready for round two. Only, instead of the sallow lanky man that was mixin’ drinks before and wipin’ things down, there’s a Groot-lookin’ fella in his place. I blink slowly as though my lids are wipers that will somehow clear the vision before me from my eyes, but it doesn’t work.

  If Groot had a shorter, stockier, older relative, it’d be this walkin’ tree stump. His skin-bark is gray, and he’s thick, with dark brown eyes and red leaves branchin’ out from the sides of his fingers. I shake my head, tryin’ to figure out what’s goin’ on, but my cage gets even more rattled when I look over and see that the judgmental couple that’s been watchin’ me look like they’re somethin’ straight out of Area 51.

  What in the Sam Hill is goin’ on?

  Do I have heatstroke? I put my palm to my head as though I’ll be able to answer that question with one quick check, but I don’t feel hot. A smidgen clammy and definitely shaky, but I blame seein’ Groot’s fatter uncle and a pair of aliens for the last part.

  I rub at my eyes, but the freaky images don’t go away. My breathin’ picks up and adrenaline goes rocketin’ through me as panic starts to take a firm hold on me, and denial fights it for control. My wide-eyed confused gaze lands on the empty cup in front of me, pieces of mint leaves now stuck to the ice, and a lightbulb goes off in my head.

  I turn a glare to the walkin’ tree trunk and stumble off the bar stool I was just perched on.

  “You drugged me!” I accuse, shocked and enraged.

  Fear’s probably gonna kick in here real soon, and I should hurry and get the hell outta Dodge before the paralyzin’ effects can kick in. Whatever this bark asshat just slipped me, I need to leave before it can taint more of my blood and good sense.

  “Excuse me?” the barky bartender demands, as though he has some right to be offended. “I didn’t do nothin’!”

  I back away from him and blindly stumble right into a table. I wince as it does its best to cause some kind of internal damage to my kidney.

  “You sure as hell did,” I snap back to the bartender, wavin’ at the state of him like it’s proof.

  I look over to the table of older patrons and immediately regret it. They look like somethin’ that just traipsed out of the bowels of Hell. Their skin is black as pitch and shiny as though they’re made of glass, and their faces are just...gone. They’re shiny glass faceless beings now.

  “We didn’t traipse,” one of them informs me, humor in his voice, but I can’t for the life of me say which one spoke, because they have no mouths, and I didn’t see anyone actually say anythin’.

  “Oh Lord, what’s happenin’ to me?” I demand, hysteria forcin’ my tone into dog-whistle range, panic floodin’ in.

  I scream when somethin’ hard hits my palm. I jump back and look down to see the stick that was leanin’ against the bar is now firmly in my hand. Was I holdin’ onto it the whole time? No, I definitely wasn’t. Which means it just…

  Just what, Medley? I ask myself as my rational, logical side tries to help me wade through the manic delirium.

  Walked its stick ass over and high fived you? It’s a stick, for the love of peaches; you need to calm down and think!

  My free hand comes up to rub over the stones on my necklace as I try to compose myself. Of course, that’s when two more not people come barrelin’ into the bar from the doorway that I know leads into the back office. One of them is familiar, which for some reason helps me not completely lose my senses. He looks like the guy from the back office who signed for the late package and helped me clean up my foot.

  What was his name?

  Alder, that was it.

  Except, his yellow hair is way less blond and way more daffodil-toned, and while the tattoos on his arms and neck are still gorgeous, they’re no longer black and gray. I stare at the myriad of watercolor blossoms now tattooed all over him, whil
e also notin’ that his skin sure as hell wasn’t lavender the last time I talked to him either. He also didn’t have a pretty flower tucked behind his ear like it’s the new favorite accessory of big muscly swamp-dwellin’ guys.

  His butterscotch eyes scan everyone in the room quickly before settlin’ on me, confused. “What’s going on?” he asks, but I can tell the question ain’t aimed at me.

  “She just started screaming for no reason,” the bark-covered bartender supplies.

  I scoff. “You drugged me!” I growl at the bartender, my stick now pointin’ at him as furious accusation drips from my tone.

  “I did no such thing,” he argues back.

  “What did you give me?” I demand, panic once again bleedin’ through my voice.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa there, darlin’.” My eyes whip over to look at the other man that stormed in with Alder. “I don’t know what would make ya think that you’ve been slipped something you didn’t ask for. Mickey there makes ’em strong, but he’d never drug a patron,” he reassures me.

  His skin is so pale that white is really the only color to explain it, but not the usual creamy skin tones or even porcelain. I’m talkin’ a china plate white. But then he has veins of gray breakin’ up his snowy pallor, almost as though his skin is made of the finest marble. His hair is black, short, and stylishly cut, and he fills out his snug T-shirt and jeans in a way that any girl could appreciate if she wasn’t drugged and cruisin’ for some serious trouble.

  “Well, of course you’d say that, you’re probably in on it,” I snap back, my stick now shakily pointed at him.

  I was all ready to possibly turn this thing into kindlin’ or hope it was some lucky talisman that would help me sort my life out, but now I think this stick might just be the very weapon that helps me get out of here in one piece and saves my life.

  I don’t know what these people’s game is. Do they wait for some unsuspectin’ woman to lose her way and get caught in their web out here? It doesn’t sound like a solid plan for a good traffickin’ business, or whatever it is they’re gonna do with me.

  My stomach lurches at all the awful possibilities that boil through my mind, and I try to shove those thoughts away. No, me and the stick are gettin’ out of here. I have to believe that.

  “Now, now, darlin’, I don’t take kindly to such an accusation. I’ve never needed anythin’ other than this to catch a female,” he tells me jovially, gesturin’ at his face and body as though his point should be obvious to me. Sure, he’s hot—if you’re into statues—but that doesn’t negate the fact that somethin’ is seriously wrong here.

  Alder steps forward, cuttin’ the marble-skinned man off. “Why do you think you’ve been drugged?” he asks me, a glint of somethin’ in his butterscotch gaze as it bounces from my stick that I’m clutchin’ like a weapon before goin’ back to my face.

  Is that astonishment? Or...excitement? Shit, neither of those can be good.

  I’m seriously the worst judge of character. Here I was, thinkin’ he was a nice and handsome guy when I left his office earlier. I don’t give a hoot that he’s got a flower behind his ear. He’s the kinda guy that can overpower you in a single move. Those muscles don’t lie.

  I shoot him a glare, refusin’ to show him my fear. “I dunno, maybe it’s the fact that Mickey over here now looks like he’s covered in bark and has leaves accessorizin’ his fingers. Or that they”—I point over at the couple who continue to casually watch everythin’ take place like it’s the best entertainment they’ve had in a spell—“now look like some kinda close encounter of the third kind!”

  I point my stick at the faceless people, and they shrink back slightly as though I’m the threat here.

  “They don’t have faces!” I screech.

  Alder’s brow furrows, and the marble guy next to him looks taken aback. No one says or does anythin’ for a moment, the bar turned completely quiet. I don’t know what to make of that.

  It’s marble man who speaks first. “Wait, how are you—”

  “Flint, look at her stick,” Alder interrupts. “Anything about that look familiar to you?”

  Flint—I guess his name is—studies the stick in my hand, and I suddenly feel the need to do the same, or maybe drop it because...what the hell is wrong with it?

  But maybe this is a ruse? Some kind of tactic for me to abandon my only weapon and become even more vulnerable?

  Nice try, pretty spider, but this fly ain’t gettin’ caught today!

  “Where did you say you found that staff again?” Alder asks me casually, a little too casually, as he also takes a step closer.

  I take a step back, and he immediately freezes.

  Got ya, you weird bouquet of flowers and muscles.

  “I stepped on it outside, like I already told you.”

  I take another step back.

  “Could we have a Delta on our hands?” Flint asks, his voice quiet as though he’s almost afraid to say that out loud.

  “That’s what I’m wondering,” Alder confirms.

  Delta? I ask myself, clearly not in on their criminal lingo.

  “How?” Flint asks, his tone now filled with awe as he looks at me with the same expression clear as day on his face.

  “How in the Morning Star’s wings would I know?” Alder retorts, and then they both take a step closer to me.

  One second, I’m retreatin’ even further away from them, feelin’ more and more threatened and fearful. The next, an eerily familiar blackness bleeds into my vision. But it’s worse than earlier in the truck. Way worse. No amount of rubbin’ my necklace or countin’ my breaths is gonna stop it from takin’ over.

  Oh, shit.

  The last time this happened, I took out five of Arkansas State University’s startin’ line.

  I attempt to fight the darkness, but somethin’ inside of me knows it’s too late. I try not to panic, because that just makes whatever this is worse.

  The last thing I hear is the distinct sound of metal bein’ unsheathed before the darkness I work so hard to hide takes over.

  Oh Lord, please don’t let me kill anyone this time.

  4

  The chorus of Imagine Dragons’ “Demons” fills my ears, and I groan into my pillow. My head is killin’ me, and I can feel my pulse in my foot for some reason too. I slap around for my phone so I can turn my cursed alarm off, but if it thinks I’m openin’ my eyes to find it, it’s got another thing comin’.

  I finally find my charger cord and trace it back to the phone that’s now oddly gone silent. A chirp goes off, lettin’ me know I have a voicemail, and I groan again, because now I’ll have to open my eyes in order to listen to it.

  I peel my lids back, and my head throbs in protest.

  Damn, how much did I drink last night?

  My mouth tastes stale, and I unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth as I unlock my phone and play the voicemail. I hit the speaker button and then wait for what I expect to be Kiara or AnnaMae givin’ me shit for the rare form I must’ve been in last night. It’s usually them who get all drunk and wild, but I guess they talked me into one too many shots.

  “Medley Bell, how dare you leave your truck parked in the lot with the keys still in the ignition! If there had been any doubt before, you can rest assured that you are fired. I oughta take this out of your hide, but lucky for you, there’s no damage to the truck. But if you see me in the street, you better cross the road, or we will have words, missy. You hear me? I want you to come in and get your things. Oh, and stay away from Bob Grace. He’s mine! Good for nothin’ trailer trash—”

  The message ends, cuttin’ off the string of colorful words I’m sure Patricia was spoutin’ off. Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t call back and leave a message just to be sure I heard exactly what she thought of me.

  I have no idea why I would’ve left the keys in the ignition, but that bitch has been lookin’ for a reason to get rid of me for a while now, so really I shouldn’t be surprised. Guess I don’t ha
ve to work that double today after all.

  Somethin’...somethin’ about that thought feels off.

  Wait. What day is it?

  I check my phone for answers and sit up. Saturday?

  What the heck?

  And then it all comes floodin’ back. The dog, my asshole boss, the late delivery and last write-up, the stick, the spiked drink.

  Oh, shit!

  I feel all over my body for any signs of a fight, but it all feels normal. I bump somethin’ hard under the covers with my leg, and I fling the quilt and sheet back to find the stick tucked in next to me like it’s my bed partner of choice.

  I breathe through the rush of adrenaline and panic as I recall my last memory and the blackness that overtook me in that bar.

  Lord, what the hell have I done now?

  I leap out of bed and throw the door to my room open. I hurry into the livin’ room and snatch the TV remote right out of my daddy’s hand. He’s perched in his usual spot on the couch in our double-wide, pretendin’ to fix the toaster in his lap while some kinda sports show plays in the background.

  “Hey, I was just about to...”

  I tune him out as I flick through the channels. “Come on. Come on.” I frustratedly chant until I find what I’m lookin’ for. I stop on the channel and watch as though my life depends on it. Who knows, it just might.

  My mama is in the kitchen, and she takes one look at my very rumpled appearance with a raised brow. “Well, don’t you just look like you was shot at and missed, shit at and hit.”

  “Shh, Mama, I’m tryin’ to hear,” I say and then bat her hand away from my hair. She no doubt just licked her palm to smooth back a flyaway or two.

  Ew.

  She giggles, not fazed in the slightest by my irritation as she walks back into the kitchen, an apron tied around her figure, and her red hair blown and hairsprayed within an inch of its life.

  “I’m just pickin’ your peaches, HB,” she calls. “What’s got you in such a tiff this mornin’?”